


don't you mind?

by blueczerny



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:02:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueczerny/pseuds/blueczerny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam's always felt that this was inevitable- his fate, as it were. Ronan will do anything to avert this happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> This is an intense fic at parts, for obvious reasons. Please don't read if you think it'll trigger you. Butttttttttt this fic is pretty near and dear to my heart and I hope you enjoy it!!

Adam would never admit to needing help- not for this, never for this- and so, as he ties the knot with shaking hands, he knows that this was inevitable. Only a matter of time, or however the saying goes.  
The curtain rod is maybe not strong enough, but he’ll figure that out momentarily, Adam will. Because if the rod breaks, if the rod crashes down, this will all be for naught. And if this is all for naught, Adam will have to rush back over to Monmouth, try to retrieve the note he left before anyone else can get to it. Before Ronan can get to it, especially.  
Ah, hell. Adam had promised himself- no, sworn to himself- that he wouldn’t think about Ronan anymore. If he thinks about Ronan while he’s tying this knot… if he thinks about Ronan as he’s stepping up onto the closed toilet… if he thinks about Ronan as he’s slipping the makeshift noose around his neck…  
He won’t.  
Adam is standing there on the toilet, his eyes screwed shut and his breaths coming too quick. He’s shaking, he’s cold, his makeshift apartment is fucking _cold_ , and he needs to… just… do it.  
So he does.  
Everything seems to fall into slow motion, like this is a scene in a fucking movie or… something. Anything. Anything but real life.  
But this _is_ real life, and as real life would have it, the curtain rod is, in fact, not strong enough.  
Adam falls, his forehead meeting the corner of the sink, his elbow slamming against the floor. A flash of lights behind his closed eyelids, a wave of pain throughout his entire being. And the sound of the bathroom door being flung open.  
“Adam, what the _fuck_?!”  
Adam tries to open his eyes. Really, he does try. But his body seems to have a mind of its own, now, because his eyes are drifting shut of their own accord, and he’s shivering as if he’d been stuck naked in Antarctica or something. Something.  
Ronan rushes over, his sneakers entirely too loud against the shitty tiled floor, and drops to his knees. The joints crack like Ronan’s ancient, and if this was any other situation, any other scenario, Adam would maybe tease him for it.  
But as it is, Adam is crumpled in a heap on the shitty tiled floor, and he doesn’t know it, but he’s bleeding from the wound on his forehead, courtesy of the corner of the sink. And it’s… well, it’s a lot of blood, and Ronan feels a little faint at just _how much goddamn blood_ there really is.  
“Adam, hey. Hey, you fucknut, answer me, okay?” Ronan’s standing again, and Adam is vaguely aware of him rummaging through the medicine cabinet for something. What is he…  
Adam’s thoughts trail off, and everything feels too heavy, so heavy, but the water’s running and here’s Ronan again, dabbing a cold wet washcloth all over Adam’s face.  
“Seriously, Adam, say something. Please. I need you to…”  
Ronan’s voice trails off much the same as Adam’s thoughts, as he continues to press the washcloth to Adam’s flushed skin. It feels nice. It feels so nice, and a tiny, still-awake part of Adam’s consciousness wishes the scenario was anything else, so he could maybe actually enjoy Ronan’s attention. Ronan’s caring.  
Ronan tears a thick wad of toilet paper from the roll that sits on the toilet tank, and presses it to the laceration on Adam’s forehead. A distant jolt of pain at the sudden pressure, and then, nothing. Adam’s starting to feel nothi-


	2. two

“Hey, dumbass. Are you finally awake?”  
Ronan’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, and that’s the first thing to register in Adam’s foggy mind.  
“Okay, I can tell you’re awake, so like… open your eyes or something. Jesus.”  
Adam feels hazy and out of it and _wrong_ , but he does as he’s been asked, he opens his eyes, and the second thing to register in his foggy mind is that his head is in Ronan’s lap.  
“Good,” Ronan mutters, shaking his head a little and frowning down at Adam. “You scared the ever-living fuck out of me, Parrish, and I’ll… I’ll fucking _gut you_ if you do that to me ever again. Got it?”  
Adam tries to nod, but Jesus Christ, his head hurts. So he just shrugs a shoulder, a barely perceptible movement, and tries to clear his throat to speak.  
“Stay quiet, Parrish. God.” Ronan shakes his head again, but Adam is slowly starting to pick up on more and more as he comes out of this haze he’s in, and so he realizes that Ronan’s cheeks are abnormally devoid of color, and that his usual expression of general distaste has been replaced by something more akin to… worry?  
Moments tick by, and finally Ronan just leans his head back against the wall behind him, groaning deep in his throat. Adam lets his eyelids flutter open, and he’s got a view straight up at Ronan’s neck, his throat, the underside of his jaw. He can see the lump in Ronan’s throat bob up and down as he swallows, and he…  
He notices Ronan’s hands, then, or rather their locations.  
Ronan’s right hand: tangled lightly in Adam’s hair, near the nape of his neck, random locks wrapped loosely around Ronan’s slender, calloused fingers like soft, silken ribbons around old oak trees.  
Ronan’s left hand: resting over the tattoo on Adam’s chest, right over his heart, the Celtic knot Adam had inked there without anyone else’s knowledge. Ronan’s first and second fingers, the knuckles scabbed up from God knows what, idly running back and forth across the image that he himself inspired.  
“Are you angry?”  
Ronan’s head leans forward again, his brows knit together as he stares Adam down.  
“Am I ang- you idiot, of course I’m angry,” Ronan exclaims, the little muscle in his jaw twitching, a dead giveaway; Adam should have known.  
“Well, I’m sorry.” Adam _is_ sorry. Oh, how Adam is sorry. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to explain just how sorry he really is, but he knows Ronan will never let him attempt to explain, anyway.  
“Good.”  
And that’s the end of that conversation. Ronan won’t let it drag out, he’s made that perfectly clear in all the words he hasn’t said.  
So there they are, in near silence; Adam’s just now noticing, but Ronan’s phone is on the makeshift milk crate nightstand, his music player open and a soft, forgettable melody helping to fill the void. And Ronan’s hands haven’t moved, even though Adam is clearly awake. No, Ronan’s hands have stayed right where they’ve been all along. Right where they seem to belong.


	3. three

When Ronan inevitably drifts off, Adam is still awake. Really, he’s not sure why or how, but any time that he can get to observe Ronan sleeping… he’ll take it gladly.  
Adam sits up a bit, not without difficulty. He realizes his elbow- no, his arm entirely- is more or less immobilized; it’s wrapped in one of his thicker blankets, and tied securely with four of his more ragged ties. And it _hurts_. He vaguely remembers the falling, the slamming his elbow against the floor and knocking his forehead against the sink. Yeah. That’s right. That’s why this pain.  
Once he’s upright enough, though, Adam can scoot over so that he’s _next to_ Ronan instead of _in Ronan’s lap_ , thus allowing him to observe Ronan in this (sort of) peaceful state.  
Ronan never really looks peaceful. That’s just fact. Nothing to it, that’s… just his face, Adam figures.  
(Not that he’s complaining. He’d never complain about Ronan’s face. But that’s beside the point.)  
Adam breathes in deep through his nose, and exhales from his mouth, and in so doing he catches a whiff of Ronan’s Irish Spring body wash (“I fucking swear, Gansey, if you tease me _one more time_ about the brand of soap I use…”). And a pang of confusing emotion shoots, inexplicably, through Adam’s chest.  
Ronan snores, just a little. Nothing to really comment on, but audibly nonetheless. And Adam never wants to forget the way it sounds. In fact, he never wants to forget anything about Ronan in this moment. The body wash. The snoring. The way his jaw has fallen slack and his mouth is open slightly, and the crookedness of the ring in his septum. Adam wants to reach out and fix the ring, straighten it up, until he has the following thought: “It’s one of his imperfections.”  
Adam adores Ronan’s imperfections, in a way he feels no one else can quite understand. Everything about “that Lynch boy”, every quirk and nuance and oddity. They make Adam’s world go ‘round.  
By the rapid twitching of Ronan’s shut eyelids, Adam can tell he’s dreaming. This fascinates him, and he watches for countless minutes. The music from Ronan’s phone stops- it must have been on a timer- but Adam still hears it in his head. He wants to lean over and… and what? Brush his thumb along Ronan’s cheekbone? Maybe. Flutter his long lashes against Ronan’s jaw and nip that spot on his neck? It’s possible. Press a feather-light kiss to each flickering eyelid? Most definitely.  
Ronan’s starting to wake, Adam figures, because his eyelids stop their dancing, and his brows furrow together like they do ninety-five percent of the time that Gansey’s talking. So he scoots back a little, not wanting to perturb Ronan with his close proximity. And, okay, he also needs to use the bathroom. So with a bit of difficulty he gets out of bed- ouch, talk about a head rush- and makes his way, however begrudgingly, to the scene of the crime. So to speak.  
When he’s returned, Ronan is sitting ramrod straight in bed, his knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring off into space.  
“Ronan?”  
Adam’s voice seems to surprise the other, because he startles, whipping his gaze towards Adam and opening his mouth as if to speak. But no words come out. And he doesn’t shift positions. He’s still sitting like that. And Adam wants to know why.  
“What is it?” Adam mumbles, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his “bandaged” arm hanging stiffly at his side. Something seems off. He’s not sure what. He’s not sure why.  
And then there it is, Adam’s Coca Cola T-shirt, in Ronan’s outstretched hand, and Adam’s confused because… he just did laundry two days ago and he hasn’t worn the shirt since and…  
He walks to the hamper he splurged on at Walmart (nine dollars for the damn thing- can you believe that?!) and underneath some jeans and a pair of heart-print boxers, is his Coca Cola T-shirt.


End file.
